


Visions of Love

by heli0s



Series: Blessed be the Mystery of Love [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Conversations, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Mild Smut, Multi, Romance, Slice of Life, Suggestive Themes, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-07-07 17:10:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19855927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heli0s/pseuds/heli0s
Summary: Snapshots of the life you have with Steve and Bucky.





	1. Happy Birthday, Steve Rogers

It’s a sweltering hot evening in July when you carefully pat on the last of the fire-engine red lipstick in the vanity. Your hair is curled neatly in large, fluffy rings, brushing against your shoulders and over your back, and you carefully fill in your plucked eyebrows with dark powder until it becomes perfectly arched.

Then, you shimmy on the costume, making sure to smooth out the wrinkles and pull up the pantyhose.

“Baby, holy shit. _Baby…_ ”

Hot breath puffs at your neck as you try to fix the blue collar of the suit. You shoo your assailant away as his hands begin to unbutton the very button you had just fastened. He’s quicker and more dexterous, of course, and pops it open even as your hands fiercely guard it.

“Lemme take it off ya, please… He’s had all day. Pay attention to me, kitten.”

“It’s his _birthday_ , you nympho!” You shriek with laughter as Bucky’s hands forgo the buttons completely and dives into the front of your blouse, grabbing onto your breasts. Twisting out of his grasp, you fix your chest and slip on the heels, trying your hardest to ignore just how handsome he looks with his hair out of his face.

“Get your uniform on and meet me on the roof in ten minutes, or so help me, Buck, _no sex_ for a week.”

Your lover pales considerably and salutes you with as much acquiescence as he can genuinely muster before nearly flying into the closet. You laugh as you head into the kitchen, scooping the frozen ice-cream cake and stashed bag of goodies into your arms and dashing into the nearest elevator.

“You look lovely, ma’am.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimes

“Thank you, Fri.” You respond, “Is Steve back yet?”

“Captain Rogers’ ETA is four minutes, ma’am. Should I send him to the roof upon his arrival?”

“Yes, please.”

When you arrive, you’re greeted with cheers and whoops from the rest of the team. Tony has set up air conditioning units galore and even a small lemonade stand where one of his extra suits robotically passes out glasses to those who request them. They’ve opened up blankets and sit comfortably. Tony, however, refused and instead, brought his own personalized lawn chair, even as Pepper leans back on a blanket next to his feet. 

You curtsy with pride, radiant like a sparkler on the Fourth o’ July… and speaking of…

Today, for Steve Rogers’ very patriotic and serendipitous birthday, you have dressed up as his very own USO Girl, reminiscent of all those tours he did with the United States Army. Bucky has joined you, requesting (and being granted) his old uniform from the museum. From next to Sam, said man saunters over, taking the cake and the bag from your hand and dipping you low before planting a kiss to your sternum—the only place you’ve allowed him to in fear of smearing any of your make up. But even there, you’ve dusted yourself with a layer of loose powder—glittery and perfumed.

“Get a room!” Tony shouts before rolling his eyes and taking a swig of his alcoholic lemonade.

It’s been like this all day, really. Usually affections are confined to the bedrooms, but this morning, you and Bucky made breakfast for Steve while he was away on his jog and took turns kissing him in the dining room. Then, the three of you splashed around in the pool for a while, feeling each other up beneath the blue-green water, refractions of your hands and thighs glimmering under the sun. After that, you took him to an early dinner while Bucky got a haircut and picked up the cake you’d placed in weeks in advance.

It was a delicately planned thing, because Steve Rogers is scrutinizing as hell and could unravel any half-assed plan unless you could be more cunning than him. And this time, oh this time, you were. After an entire day of teasing, with his brain a cluttered mess of arousal, you sent Steve away to pick up sparklers right as the sun was about to set.

The elevator to the rooftop _dings_ open and Steve steps forward, three boxes tucked under his armpit, brows furrowed.

“Happy Birthday!” You all shout.

You bound up to him and jump right into his arms. The boxes clatter to the ground and sparklers scatter all over his feet.

“Oh!”

He flushes red when he sees the crimson pout of your lips leaning in.

“Happy birthday, Captain.” You whisper into his ear, hands clasped behind his neck, knees bent and ankles crossed, not giving a care in the world if everyone could see your panties. From Bucky’s sudden appearance against your back, it seems like they might have.

Setting you back down, Steve takes a look at your outfit—low-cut blue blouse with stars on the lapels, alternating white and red pleats on a skirt so short it makes him burn even more, and you’ve even got on the silk white gloves and heels to match. You grin at him, pearly teeth dazzling like diamonds against the red velvet of your lips.

Bucky smiles, moving to your side and slipping an arm around your waist, “Happy Birthday, old man.”

Steve gasps audibly when he notices, hand coming up to rest against Bucky’s neck, fingers dipping into the dark green collar of his dress shirt and gray of his jacket. He’s committed himself to the look—even cutting off his hair to mirror the way he’d been back during the war. Steve’s hand moves absently to Bucky’s jaw, rubbing against the smooth plane of skin. His heart flutters at the alleyway memory- the first time Bucky told him of his enlistment.

“Wow. Buck.”

“Get a room!” Tony yells again.

Sam joins in too, hollering at the three of you. Soon enough, Natasha does too, so finally, you take a step back and wander towards the rest of the team, grabbing two lemonades for the boys before placing the candles in the cake. 

You click your heels over to Steve, swinging your hips back and forth to the tune of an imaginary jazz band and start singing Happy Birthday cheerily. Pepper joins in, grabbing Tony’s hand as he spins her around. At the end, everyone claps and Steve leans forward, blowing out the candles with a wide smile on his face. His eyes are fixed onto yours until his breath snuffs out the last flame.

Bucky serves everyone a slice, and against the breeze of the hot wind, frozen layers of vanilla and chocolate are a welcome reprieve.

Steve settles in the middle, kissing your shoulder softly before doing the same to Buck’s jaw, licking the salt of his sweat from his chin. Bucky growls playfully before taking another bite, purposefully smearing the cream over his pink lips—an overtly lewd invitation.

The sun now sits low in the sky, almost gone from the horizon completely. The darkness shields the others from seeing what’s growing inside Steve all day—and what now swells against the fly of his jeans. How could he not be frustrated? Bucky had woken him up with bites and nips before disappearing on a run. Steve thought he could catch up, but Bucky was nowhere to be found on his usual trail. Instead, he had looped back around to the compound and helped you make breakfast.

The sweet gesture turned even sweeter with the two of you driving him crazy in the dining room, sucking maple syrup from his fingers, pressing up against him while doing the dishes, kissing him. Then, in the pool--- good God, Steve thinks, how much can a man take?

You’d worn the _smallest_ bikini—one he’d never seen before, and melted into the water on Bucky’s back. The two of you, moving against the blue, mesmerizing and wet, nearly made him come right there—right in the damn pool. Then you’d refused to shower with him—rattling off an excuse.

Dinner was no better. You entered in a lavender summer dress, tucked a wildflower behind your ear, and drove stick to a quiet rustic restaurant full of spicy aromas and candlelight. The way your eyes blazed behind the flickering centerpiece, how your hair slipped over your shoulder, how your lips bent and moved as you chewed. You _knew_ full well what you were doing to him.

“Oh, shoot!” You had cried, right as you pulled the car into its usual parking spot, “I forgot the sparklers. Would you mind getting them? I want to help Tony set up… you know how he gets with these things.”

How could he say no? Especially with your big, doe-eyed stare, and that wildflower, a gathering of yellow petals accentuating your beauty so perfectly? You leaned over across the middle console of the car and pressed a brief kiss to his lips, deeply inhaling the scent of him. “Hurry back, the fireworks will start soon.”

Steve nuzzles your cheek as the first flare shoots into the sky with a shrill cry before bursting into an exploding chrysanthemum of red and white. The taste of vanilla and cake crumbles linger on his tongue as it slowly traces the shape of your ear. You had tricked him, and now it was his turn to control the day. _His_ day.

“Captain!” You scold playfully, “My goodness!”

Your man is mostly sweet and rarely wild, so it takes you completely by surprise when he growls into your ear, “I _am_ your captain, aren’t I?”

You turn quickly to face him, missing the next firework that streaks into the darkness. The boom of it drowns out his words for everyone save you and Bucky.

“Will you call me that tonight? All night?”

Bucky’s low chuckle is timed perfectly with the next rocket’s screech. “In a mood, aren’tcha, Stevie?”

“I’m your Captain too, Sergeant.”

The deafening crack of an exploding cluster blazes into the night overhead, pinwheels of blue sizzling and scattering, lighting up the shadows of Steve’s face. You watch his features darken with the night as the lights die. Bucky hums submissively to his left, leaning his chin against Steve’s sharp shoulder.

The next light is bright purple, washing all of you in violet, turning the blue of Steve’s gaze into an opulent amethyst. He licks his lips before it flickers away and your eyes need to adjust to see the shape of his mouth.

“I’m finished with cake and fireworks.” He states plainly, setting the plate of melted dessert down along with his fork. “And so are you two.”

Steve stands, brushes off his pants, and leaves without another word.

Another flare roars. Red this time, as you and Bucky stare at each other, the air hanging between you so heavy you could cut it with the cake-knife now lying uselessly by Pepper’s foot.

Bucky scrambles up, fixing the hat on top of his head when it teeters too far to one side and yanks you up with him. Your heel nearly breaks as you run behind, pulled along by your wrist. The explosions in the sky are nothing compared to how your chest feels right now— rumbling furiously at the mere thought of Steve’s hands twisting the night’s reigns over his fists. You feel a cool bead of sweat trickle down your chest, right on top of his Words.

“Where are you going!?” Natasha calls when Bucky nearly rips the elevator door open.

“We’re getting a room, like Tony suggested!” You shoot back, hopping in and bouncing on your toes.

“This was _your_ idea!” Sam protests, but the door has already shut and both of you are slinking down out of view. Before the two of you are completely gone, they hear Bucky’s muffled cry- triumphant and celebratory.

“God Bless America!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> There were such lovely comments for Mystery that I decided to continue the series with little vignettes of the reader and the boys. They will mostly be sweet and domestic chapters, not too much angst or pain at all. :)  
> Let me know what you think. See you next time !


	2. Pet Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys wonder why you never call them by any terms of endearment.

They have so many for you: Angel, darling, sweetheart, kitten, honey. All tender and easily passing over their lips any chance they get. Some were more creative: doll-baby, honeybunny, pumpkin, cherub. Some of them would stoke fires in your cheeks just at the sound of their silly syllables rolling off your lovers’ tongues.

Once during a quiet dinner at the compound, Bucky asked, “Can you hand me the salt, peach?” And you had taken a moment to wonder what kind of entrée a salt-peach even was before realizing he paused in between the two sounds.

 _You_ were the peach. He wanted the salt.

“How come you don’t have any pet names for us?” Bucky ventures now, as you lie you head in Steve’s lap. The three of you are lounging about and ready for bed, nestled in the excessively large mattress in Steve’s room. Well, it’s the shared room for all three of you, you suppose, even if it formerly belonged to only Steve. You call the other room Bucky’s room, but that’s not quite accurate either. It’s been transformed into something resembling more like an office. You spend most of your time there on your computer while Steve reads or draws Bucky as he watches T.V.

“For you?” You murmur as Steve twirls a strand of your hair over his pointer.

“Yeah, honey. I’ve wondered that, too.”

Bucky flips on his stomach and army-crawls until he’s comfortably nestled against the side of your body, hand reaching under your shirt. He gives you a kiss on the cheek and props his head up on his other palm. The metal one is harmless, resting on your sternum with a tap with his finger here and there, but not devilish like it can be.

You have a reason, and it’s a pretty good one. But the look in their eyes seem a little hurt that you have no affectionate titles to call them. “Can I tell you tomorrow?” you ask, stifling a yawn being your hand. “It’s so late.”

“C’mon babe.” Bucky whines, but Steve nudges him with a pitched-up knee and he relents, rolling his eyes and his body away. You hide a smile as you sit up and head toward the restroom, pulling your toothbrush from the seashell print container.

“Honey?” You call from the counter casually, “We’re out of toothpaste- mind getting me some?”

Two pairs of feet patter forward in a hurry before both broad-shouldered men knock into each other at the doorway, eager to respond. “Woah, Buck!” Steve is alarmed as Bucky nudges past him.

“Got it!” Bucky grins widely, supplying you with the tube he’s pulled from the high cabinet. There’s pure delight in his eyes when you take it from him, even as Steve fixes his narrowed gaze on the back of Bucky’s head and then slowly to your nonchalant humming in the mirror. _What are you up to?_ He’s asking. But you pretend like you don’t see him.

After washing your face, you lie down in the middle tonight and kiss them both on the cheek before pulling the cover up until its edge reaches your chin. It’s dark now, with the white-noise machine droning on in the background—a steady current of buzzing.

“You were talkin’ to me, weren’t ya?” Bucky asks.

“Mhm,” You say. “Goodnight, handsome.”

“Goodnight.” They both reply.

“She was talkin’ to _me_.” Bucky grumbles.

“No, she wasn’t.” Steve spits back.

It’s like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, you swear. In the middle, your shoulders tremor with laughter and Steve tugs the nightstand lamp back to life. “Huh, I see now.” He accuses with a playful smile, turning so that he hovers over you. You press your face into Bucky’s arm and cling onto him like a lifesaver. “I see what you’re doing, you little minx.”

“What’m I doin?” Your voice comes out muffled by Bucky’s skin, who now stirs too.

“ _Oh_.” Bucky catches onto Steve’s train of thought. They’ve both discovered your plot too early. You had hoped to enjoy at least a few more morning hours with this kind of play. “You’re _mean_.”

Steve presses his nose into your neck, breathing in the scent of your lightly perfumed face wash and the sweat that threatens to accumulate from his scrutiny. His large hand comes and wraps around your elbow, prying you loose. Bucky is there immediately, other hand pressing you down until you’re on your back, sinister glint in his eyes. “You know what, babydoll?” He asks—even though the question isn’t a question at all.

“Maybe we’ll play a game with _you_ ,” he mutters, pinning your left wrist to the pillow. Steve does the same to your right one, and a scream is about to wrench itself from your throat because you can’t _stand_ to be tickled. Steve watches Buck eagerly, a smirk tugging up his cheek.

Bucky licks a stripe from your neck to your ear and you squeal at the sensation. There’s _just_ being tickled, and then there’s the _dread and panic_ of being tickled that somehow tricks your brain into feeling it even before it happens. Your toes curl so hard the entire arch of both your feet cramp.

“Stevie, think of somethin’ you’d like to be called by.” Bucky suggests, “As for me, kitten... How about...” You see him plotting. You see him digging down into the filthiest pit of his brain and yanking out something so utterly mortifying that you squeeze your eyes shut.

“Big boy.”

You peek up at him and your feet relax. That’s not so bad. It’s kind of cute. But then he says it again, with a slow, meaningful inflection. _Big_ boy.

You frown. “No way.”

“You wanna get tickled, honey?” Steve asks.

“Steve!”

“Not Steve,” He replies flippantly, “Let’s start with _sir_.”

You sputter, “What is this? A FetLife meetup?”

They raise their eyebrows and you shake your head, better to _not_ introduce them to that, you think. “Fine.”

“Fine, what?” Steve asks.

And then, for the first time in a long time, you suddenly regret choosing to sleep in the middle because your men are holding your wrists down and pressing their bodies against you. Steve buries his mouth into your neck, bites on the lobe of your ear. Bucky rubs the hardening length of his cock against your thigh, hooking his leg over both of yours and grinding painfully slow.

Your mouth grazes Bucky’s in a tremulous kiss, gasping when he bites on your bottom lip—just enough to shock. His tongue flicks out to lick yours, then trails up to catch your top lip before he descends again, starting the process over—never staying still enough for your lips to actually meet.

Steve lovingly pulls your hair from your neck, away from your collar and kisses your nape, murmuring into your skin. The vibrations travel all over your body, blooming goosebumps down your arms and back. “Bucky!” You whine.

“Whossat?” Another sloppy half-kiss rubs against your tongue.

“Ugh!” You rasp when Steve’s hand finds its way between your legs and yanks against your underwear, pulling the crotch of your panties tight into a knot. He tugs and tugs, and it rubs against your clit. “Oh God! I can’t believe---”

“Mhm.” They goad you on, Bucky’s hand joins Steve, one pulling the fabric forward, the other backward. Your poor little panties are going to--

The shrieking of fibers ripping apart make both of them pause. “Oops. Sorry baby.”

You shriek for real, this time, swatting their hands away. “These were my favorite!”

“Well, you made us do it.” Bucky replies.

“Oh, this is _some_ gaslighting horseshit!” You are beyond impatient, temper flared on by the simple fact that they tore your _favorite_ pair of underwear— but really, honestly, more because they are such jerks when they merge on the same mission to drive you crazy. _And_ because Bucky wants you to call him _Big Boy._

“You talkin’ to me, sweetheart?” Steve asks.

“Or me, sweetheart?” Bucky asks, unreasonably annoying. “Maybe…” He pretends to ponder, tapping his pointer against his lip slick with your saliva before his eyes fall upon your face. “I know. No more pet names for you, if there aren’t any for us…”

Before your top explodes and you might break your hands punching them both in the face at the same time, your phone trills out a familiar tri-tone ring, looping again and again. Thor’s face flashes on the screen. Bucky and Steve send each other a look as well as you when you pick it up and inspect it. It’s nearly midnight; none of you know why Thor is calling.

“Hello?” You venture. He doesn’t respond, only greeting you with rustling and muffled speech. So, you try again.

“Hello? Thor?”

Then, his resonant voice claps on the other line like a thundercloud-- clear as a crystal blue day. “Ah! I didn’t mean to bother you!” He laughs, “Must be quite late where you are, isn’t it?”

“Uh… where are _you_?” You ask in return. “I’m about ready for bed.”

“I suppose I’ve done what they categorize as a booty call.”

“No! No, Thor!” You stammer when Bucky sits up and rounds in on you with a glower, emphatically mouthing the word _booty call_.

“Not a booty call. A _butt-dial_. _Not_ a booty call!” You hold your hand up to repel Bucky and repeat it again for good measure. The Asgardian god on the other end only laughs. A deep, bellowing echo from his chest, as he always sounds.

“Ah-ha. You’re absolutely right. Well, I best let you get to bed, before your lovers come for me.”

You giggle. “Good idea. Have fun wherever you are!”

“Goodnight, dear.”

“G’night, Your Highness.” The title makes him chuckle softly before he hangs up. And you do too, tucking the phone back under your pillow and sighing softly. “Just a butt-dial.” You smile, reassuring the two flanking you with their severe blue eyes.

“Dear?” Steve asks.

“Your _Highness_?” Bucky adds.

You throw your head back onto the pillow. Christ, not this. Anything but this. It’s fine and dandy when they tease and harass you in good humor. But when it becomes something soured with jealousy—they’re the _worst_. They become two gods, ram-rod straight monoliths, smoldering with vengeance.

You close your eyes and accept your fate, body already shuddering with anticipated fear.

“Oh no…” Bucky warns.

“Oh, _fuck_ no.” Steve hisses.

The second shriek they pull from you when all twenty fingers descend on your sides echoes throughout the compound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 Thanks for following this series, everyone! I promise the chapter where the reader sees her parents again will happen lol. Soon!
> 
> Until then, visit me on tumblr (@heli0s-writes)! I just started my blog and will hopefully get all of my works up by the end of the ... month?? Eep!


	3. Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are not made out of sugar.

Is it trite and clichéd to say, as a human woman Bound to two Super Soldier, that they are protective of you? Often to the point of your exasperation.

Bucky has Tony design you a ring that tracks your location every second of the day. Steve has you text him before you head to work and as soon as you arrive. They ask for the name of every student who shows up to your office hours and linger in the background of your lectures, watching with matching blue eyes and scrutiny.

It’s sweet at first, and it’s what you expect. Steve is quiet about it-- doting, tender in the way he guides you over white paint panels of crosswalks and mud puddles after a storm. The way his hand touches your elbow blooms warmth all over your body. He holds on even after you’ve reached your destination and uses it as an excuse to link his fingers with yours.

Bucky takes a little more of your autonomy away. He’s old school chivalrous, to the point of embarrassment. Bucky doesn’t just take your elbow, he scoops you up by the waist and hoists you over puddles. He stomps through crowds just so you can follow him through the wide berth he’s given. He leers and snarls at any man who dares to look your way.

You tell them over and over again: I’m a woman. Not a baby. I’m your Soulmate! Not your baby!

“But baby,” Bucky coos.

“But baby,” Steve parrots.

“We don’t want anything to happen to you.”

-

On a walk, underneath the ripe, sweet scent of summertime and balmy yellow sunrays, the sky suddenly changes. Moist winds pick up scattered flower petals, gray clouds roll over from the east, and soon enough the yellow light overhead turns olive until the refractions are snuffed out completely. The three of you are too far from the compound to hide under any shelter but the oak and willow trees, which will soon grow damp with spray.

A leaf blows into your hair.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” Bucky mutters. Steve takes you by the hand and you see in the way his eyes dart back and forth that he’s calculating the possibility of the three of you making it back. Maybe _they_ could, but your ankles would probably break trying to keep up. Vibranium fingers wrap around your waist as the first droplet lands on your left shoulder.

“C’mon.”

You spin out of his clasp, refusing to be carried. But they protest, listing all sorts of reasons that you need to go _right now_. They don’t want you to be cold in the rain. They don’t get sick, but you certainly have and likely will again because of this. They hate how you hurt and burn in bed with a fever.

Your foot is ready to stomp but another droplet falls right on the tip of Steve’s nose and you giggle when he looks down at it, cross-eyed.

“Sweetheart, we have to get back.” He urges, when another drops right on his cheek and rolls down.

The tip of your pointer wicks it away before it gets lost in his beard, and you flick it at Bucky standing by his side. Shaking your head, your foot stills, no longer desiring to stomp and be upset. Your hands slide up Steve’s neck and into his hair, running through his flaxen strands, grown out and reaching down to his nape. He leans forward, letting your forehead touch his. His body transfer heat into your palms. Your palms send it back into him—a mutual exchange of warmth and fondness.

“Steve, I’m fine.” You press a kiss to the trail of rainwater on his face. “I’m not made out of sugar.” A coy smile is sent his way, and he finds himself momentarily stunned by your big eyes, all soft and adoring him.

Bucky steps forward and cocks his head at your statement.

You explain, “I’m not gonna melt, you know.”

A clap of thunder heralds the curtain of rain. The streak of lightning that follows is your signal to sprint off into the soaked distance, laughing all the while. The ground is still dry for now as the first few seconds hit but it soon becomes permeated, soil slipping away into mud and squishing underneath your sandals. Steve and Bucky give chase, and you know it won’t be long until they catch you, but the game is too good to give up.

You quickly slide your shoes off and put them in your hands, eyes barely open from all the _wetness_ clinging to every inch of your skin. Heavy bulbous drops splat onto your scalp, fling themselves into your open and panting mouth, turns the white of your dress thin and clear like a new layer of skin. Bucky is calling to you, but the downpour drowns him out.

Your feet soon become caked with mud, and you can hear footsteps getting closer. An idea hits you with the next lightning strike, and you whip around, throwing one shoe at Bucky and one shoe at Steve. Of course, your goal isn’t to hit them at all.

Each sandal flies in an opposite direction and they pause to see where it lands. Steve cries your name in disbelief and you only laugh at the way his body jerks back and forth, not knowing if he should continue chasing or go back to recover it. Bucky is not so kind, sprinting even faster when Steve halts and retrieves your belongings. You yelp when both his arms wrap around your middle and your feet lift off the soaked earth. The both of you are slippery and slick, pelted into sopping wet masses on the greenery of the front lawn. Each bead that rolls off you splatters onto him as he looks up into your face, and into the countless other droplets that continue to fall.

“Baby…” he warns, “How could you do this to me, sweetheart?” Buck’s grin looks like a blurred slit across his face as he shakes the water from his eyes. “Now look at you. All wet.” He runs his tongue along your jaw, lapping the water mixed with sweat.

With a sigh, you surge forwards and crush your lips to his, licking away the cool trickles from his mouth, “See?” You ask, “Still in one piece.”

“I guess you are.” Steve is here, chuckling, with your sandals dangling from his hand. When Bucky sets you down, he can’t help but reflexively put his arm over your head to shield you even though the rain seems to cut right through his skin to make it onto yours. It’s a silly, futile attempt, but he does it anyway.

-

The next morning, you sleep in until noon. They knew right away when your fever peaked around midnight and spoon-fed you soup in turns. You whine and curse, and they glare and scold. Steve is no stranger to bouts of illness and Bucky could nurse you in his sleep from all the times he’s been the caretaker.

You shudder even under the mountain of blankets, teeth clacking together uncontrollably against the plastic measuring cup of the cherry-flavored cold medicine. Upon swallowing, you bite back a pathetic noise and flop over in bed, wiping your sweat off with the pillow.

Steve stands watch over you, hand on his hip. Bucky returns too, warm tea in his hand and a cool towel over his arm.

“Thought you weren’t made of sugar,” He teases as he takes the garishly red container away, “You look like you’ve melted to me, honey.”

“Mmf... I’m still sweet, though.” You sigh, closing your eyes.

They exchange smiles, shaking their heads at the way your hair falls over your forehead. Steve leans over and wipes a bead of sweat from your brow, kissing the tip of your nose.

“The sweetest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another!


	4. Moving Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three of you finally move out! But now you are very tired and very cranky.

The last of the boxes have been unpacked, made quick work of under the determined hands of Steve and impatient hands of Bucky. It is midnight and Bucky is ripping apart cardboard and piling them by the corner of the entrance way. Steve is arranging dishes into cabinets with quiet clunks and careful precision, handling the ceramic ware as lightly as he can.

After another shelf has been stuffed full, he stands back to inspect his handiwork.

“What do you think about this arrangement?” He asks, completely serious.

You are splayed out on the newly mopped hardwood floor dramatically, arms outstretched, legs bent, as if you are a murder victim about to be traced be chalk. Steve and Bucky both have chosen to ignore you for the past fifteen minutes, letting you be because they know better than to encourage you.

“Beautiful.” You announce, cheek pressed to the floor. “Fantastic. Wonderful. Amazing. What a configuration of wine glasses and mugs.”

Bucky snorts in the distance and Steve only rolls his eyes, “I’m serious!” He scolds.

“Let’s go to go bed!” You whine in return, kicking your legs and planting your sock-covered feet until you are spinning slowly in a wide circle with your head and shoulder as the center point. It’s rare for you to be such a brat, but you are dead-tired and _hate_ unpacking. The sheer amount of brainpower it takes to visualize where everything goes and _how_ makes you pessimistic and limp.

The last two apartments you moved into, you were living a minimalist Marie-Kondo type of life, with your camera as your only prized possession. Since then, you have accumulated more clothing, more dishes, more towels, more of everything because there are two other people involved and they both are very specific when it comes to their needs.

Bucky needs so many pairs of socks. Steve needs house-shoes. Bucky needs throw blankets. Steve needs _all_ of his books. They both love houseplants and handheld shower heads and locally sourced coffee beans and what the hell are wool dryer balls, Steve?

Naturally, the boxes piled on until they were way over your head and taking up all the space in the living room. You could no longer visualize where anything went along with when oh when will this be all put away?

“Honey, will ya help me out?” Steve grumbles from the kitchen as he sorts through cleaning supplies. “We decided to move into our own place, so now we need to—“

“Yeah, yeah. We _need to make it feel like a home_.” You reply, shutting your eyes. When you open them again, the overhead light is blocked because Bucky is hovering over you with a feline smirk.

“Is baby feeling tired?” He teases, “Strong girl, you carried so many boxes today.”

You roll your eyes because compared to them, the boxes you carried were featherweight and while they continued unpacking all you have done is put things in the upstairs bathroom and fixed a space for you to get ready in the morning. Most of the clothes had been sorted into the right closets, but upon seeing the still half-full living room of packed away objects downstairs, you grew exhausted.

Bucky leans down until he’s on his knees and gives you an upside-down kiss, tasting of the slightest hint of salt from his sweat. It didn’t help that the move was made in August when the sun seemed to be the hottest regardless of whether or not it’s true. It had been a terribly scorching day. “Just another hour, dollface, until Steve’s ready.”

You frown. “He won’t be ready until it’s all finished.”

From the kitchen, a drawer shuts before Steve appears, shirt sleeves rolled all the way up over his shoulders and hands on his hips. “What was that?” He asks with a raised brow.

“Stevie, honey,” You sigh, “My darling, my sunshine…” Bucky sits back and shakes his head; you are laying it on thick. “My golden lion, my Hercules and—”

“Okay, that’s enough.” They both say in unison to the way your mouth curls up into a smirk. One more second and you would have turned raunchy— listing the ways he’s well endowed like a god, too.

“I wanna go to sleep!” You say petulantly, “It’s almost two and we’ve been up since six and I know you two are big, strong, super boys, but I am _tired!_ If I had any energy left at all, I’d help but I don’t!” You turn uselessly, side to side.

Bucky is more prone to letting you have your way, so he shrugs before looking up to Steve who sighs deeply, letting his head roll back. “You are so spoiled.”

Your eyelids flutter as you chew on your lip, doing your best impression of a timid little girl under his scrutiny. Even your hands clasp together, and you flex them straight down, pulling your shoulders up to rest your cheek on.

Steve sighs with a tiny smirk.

A smile breaks across your face, proudly displaying your teeth as you squeal and sit up quickly. In a snap, you launch yourself onto Steve’s torso and wrap your legs around him. “Yes!” Then, you pepper kisses all over his face and down his neck and your hands lift the back of his shirt up, fingers digging into his muscles. “Thank you! Love you, love you, love—“

“Why, honey,” Steve mumbles under your mouth as another kiss lands on his lips, “You’ve suddenly got so much energy for someone so tired.”

And you wilt once more, like a flower trampled under the searing blaze of summer sun. “One more box?” He asks, sending Bucky an impish wink.

“No! More! Boxes! Just! Go! To! Bed!” You beat your fists on his chest and thrash against his hips until you run out of breath and slump against him. “What?” you ask when his grip tightens.

Bucky puts his arm around Steve’s shoulders and peers at you. “Nice job, baby. Smart way to distract him.”

“You want to go to bed?” Steve mumbles, licking his lips. You feel it then, against your center, Steve growing stiff and large. From your tantrum in his arms, you’ve rocked all over him in just the right way. “I’ll take you to bed.” He puffs into your ear, “I’ll take you to bed, alright. ‘m gonna get you real tired, baby.”

Bucky is laughing now, cackling at the way you lean back and let your arms hang like boiled noodles to your side. One of Steve’s arms braces your spine while the other one curls around your bottom under your thigh. No, you are _actually_ tired now. It’s almost two, and you have genuinely tuckered yourself out by violently flailing. Your last fucking braincell is counting sheep branded with red and white stars.

Steve’s last braincell seems to be in between his legs. “Bucky, please.” You moan, “Save me.”

“I’ll volunteer as tribute.” Bucky shrugs nonchalantly and you dramatically put the back of your hand over your forehead while Steve walks your flaccid body upstairs.

“Oh, thank you kind sir. Steve, did you hear that? Bucky’s gonna take my place. So brave.”

With one eye, you peek up at him as a smirk grows over his face.

“Uh-huh. Sure, honey. We’ll see how long this little act of yours lasts when I get my mouth on ‘im.”

Your body bounces off the mattress and you grunt a little, tugging the sheet over your body and turn on your side. Your eyelids are so heavy and dull, neck and shoulders aching, not to mention your poor feet from standing up all day.

A shirt gets tossed on your face and you swat it away in irritation before another one lands in the same place. You pull the cover over your head, determined to endure them and pull through your mission of getting rest. 

Someone’s palm lands on someone else with a sharp _thwack_. Throaty chuckles arise before being smothered by a groaning mouth. Tongues touch and lips smack lewdly. And then, good fucking lord, the bed starts to rock as two voices pant and purr in unison.

“Fuck yes,” Bucky laughs, “Goddamn it, you’re so good.”

Butterflies are whipping around in your stomach. Steve is slurping and sucking noisily, and they both are exchanging husky breaths full of praise about who’s mouth is softer until they are both groaning into each other. You are desperately trying to count sheep but the images in your head are turning the sheep into naked little caricatures of your men, running at you instead.

“Oh, fuck you two!” You exclaim, angrily yanking the sheet down.

They are both lying on their sides, wrapped under the comforter up to their necks, as if you’ve stumbled in on them merely relaxing. No hair is misplaced on Steve nor Bucky’s head, and they look completely unruffled and serene, quirking their eyebrows at you on the edge of the mattress, fuming to yourself.

“You okay?” Bucky asks, face contorted in confusion. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re not going to sleep, baby?” Steve prompts, tilting his head.

You scramble out of the sheet and throw yourself on top of Steve, tearing the blanket off and then shoving two fingers into Bucky’s chest, twisting the ever-loving fuck out of his nipple. “Teach _me_ a fuckin’ lesson, here’s what I have to say to _that_.” You snap before doing the same to Steve. They both yelp in pain and cover themselves, shocked that you would be so rough.

Then, you cross your arms and huff. “Lesson learned, boys. Now,” you narrow your eyes at them, “I’m going to _sleep_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay y'all... we will meet the reader's parents soon! I know it's on your minds. BUT I am happily invested in stupid fluff for now. The angst will come later.


	5. We'll Come Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They surprise you with a question.

On a Thursday, you wake up to an empty bed.

It’s the middle of the week, and you have completed your second semester at Union, finishing out the year with a curated undergraduate exhibit and another talk in the Art Building. You haven’t responded to the contract renewal yet, still deciding on whether it might be a good time to take a sabbatical and focus on your own work.

Although being surrounded by your contemporaries and seeing the changes that photography has undergone in the past few years has been great, not to mention staying faithful to a schedule has helped your life _immensely_ … there is just a certain freedom that you are lacking. A freedom you really enjoy having.

You are reminded of this freedom as the sun cascades through the open blinds and over your eyes. This past year, you’ve been up before sunrise most weekdays. You smile, eyes still shut, reveling in the fact that on a Thursday, you can stretch and yawn and remain in bed for another hour if you wish.

You do just that, squeezing your hands into fists as you crane your neck upward and stretch your spine. Then, grabbing the pillow to fluff it a little more, your hand lands in something silky. Perplexed, you slap your palm around and wipe your eyes with your other hand. Another silky thing touches you. And then another.

When your eyes finally open, you see that the bed is covered in BLOOD WHAT THE FU—

Oh. Your heart settles when you realize it’s not blood at all. The bed is layered in red rose petals. Both your hands fly to your face as you take deep breaths, scolding yourself to calm down because you nearly just had a heart attack.

“Bucky?” You call cautiously, sliding off the mattress and brushing off the bits of red on your shirt. “Steve?”

When nothing answers you back, you follow the trail slowly from where your house shoes are to the half-open door. It leads you further, down the stairs, past the walkway, and through the kitchen until finally, you stop by the couch where two men stand in the middle of the living room, arguing.

“ _You_ are so stupid!” Bucky hisses, showing Steve his middle finger.

“Real mature, Buck.” Steve responds, pinching his nosebridge, “Will ya just ---”

They pause when they see you leaning on the couch, rubbing your eyes. “What’s happenin?” You ask, picking up a petal and sniffing it. “I rolled over one of these. I think—think there’s a stain. I thought it was the horse scene from _The Godfather._ ” Turning, you try to point your nose to a damp spot on the small of your back. Bucky’s t-shirt indeed had a light pink smudge. “Is this gonna wash out? I love this shirt.”

“Babe,” Bucky calls.

“And who had to tear off all these petals? Who’s hands are red?” You ask, flinging the petal in your hand down.

Steve sighs your name but hardly gets a syllable out before you interrupt again.

“And _who_ is going to sweep all of these up?!” You cry.

They call your name in unison and you snap out of your moment. It’s then you see that Steve and Bucky have dressed in matching trousers and dress shirts. The curtains are all drawn. There are candles lining the perimeter of the room and they balance on their heels, bashful and quiet.

“Guys?” You ask, feeling a sudden pitch of your heart as they stare at you lovingly. You, with a sloppy night-time bun, bunny slippers on, wearing nothing but Bucky’s oldest shirt, threadbare and crumpled, drool-stained and all.

Steve smiles first, taking Bucky’s hand in his as he steps forward. You reflexively back up, but Bucky’s short chuckle makes you pause, and he takes the opportunity to reach out to grab your hand, too. “We got ya somethin…” He murmurs.

You blink. “Is it… breakfast?” You ask, peeking over to the dining table where two more candles flicker. Sometimes they’re not sure when you are joking and when you are truly oblivious. Their girl, always independent and headstrong, sometimes became so silly in their presence.

“No.” Steve laughs, slapping the hand holding Bucky over his face. His other hand, you notice, is behind his back, and your heart suddenly drops into your stomach and feels like it’s about to fall out of you completely. “It’s better than breakfast.” He grins.

“C-C-candy?” You ask, trying to steer the conversation somewhere stupid—somewhere _else_. “D-did you—ge-get me—oh Christ.” Your eyes fill up with tears when he pulls the velvet box forward. “There’s a Jolly Rancher in there, right?” You whisper.

Bucky wipes a tear from your eye when Steve gets down on his knee. “I’d do it too, but these pants can’t contain this ass.” Bucky snarks. It earns him a laugh before another tear drips down your face.

“Honey,” Steve says quietly, looking intently at you even though he’s not much more than a blurred shape of sandy hair and two blue marbles. “We love you so much. You mean so much to us, sweetheart. We’re so happy to have you…” He pauses, “I just… I can’t think of another way to show you how much… Let’s get married, baby.”

“He had another speech, but I told him it was stupid.” Bucky comments. “Lots of references to World War II—can you believe?” But you can hear the shudder in his voice, the threat of a faltering last word, as his throat closes up with emotion while he waits for you. His hands are clammy and squeezing tightly, and you almost pause to comment because Bucky, nervous? You would have never imagined it.

Turning to face him, you see Bucky chewing on his lip, nostrils flaring just a tad to keep himself from crying. His nose is tinged pink, and you nearly jump into his arms to soothe him if it wasn’t for Steve peering at you with such earnest.

“C’mon, doll. Don’t make two old men wait.”

You can’t help but let loose a happy sob and nod your head because it is all you can get out now as your face and chest feel nothing but salty wetness pouring out. Steve slips the ring on your finger and you take a second to wipe your eyes and look at it.

A simple silver band shines like gold under the candlelight. Encrusted on top by a delicate smooth setting sits a clear blue diamond, a little green, a little grey, a perfect reminder of their loving gaze.

Steve finally stands up, brushing his knees as he holds your trembling hand up to his lips and kisses each knuckle in reverence. “What do you think?” He asks, thumbing the jewel on your finger.

You place your hand over your chest, taking Bucky’s fingers in tow. With a damp smile, you reply, “I think I need to brush my teeth before I kiss either of you.”

—

You announce the engagement over a group text to Tony and the others. Soon enough, a caravan of Avengers arrives with champagne tucked under their arms and you are scrambling to arrange some kind of fruit and cheese plate for all the guests. Natasha finds you in the kitchen and slaps your hand away before ushering you into the living room.

Pepper is there first, pulling you into a firm hug, sweeping your still wet hair to the side and placing her hand on your cheek.

“I’m so happy for you. It’s a wonderful feeling.” Her voice is wavering and gentle, and you return her hug with enthusiasm, hoping to convey to her all the gratefulness you feel for her.

Tony springs open the champagne bottle, and because there are no flutes in your new home to house them, he pours the bubbling liquid into ceramic mugs and wine glasses instead. An array of mismatched objects you’ve collected.

“What is this, a cabin?” He mutters with a little smirk as he sips champagne from a Kermit the Frog mug. They laugh and cajole, Sam is shoving his elbow into Bucky side and rubbing him about being a taken man, even though he’s been taken the very second he met you. Across the room, where Steve is being pat on the shoulder by Clint and Bruce, he sends you a smile.

All three of you, basking in the glow of the afternoon, surrounded by clinking glasses and laughter, rose petals crushed under your feet, share a sweet second of silence together before returning to the world.

—

The new ring on your finger still feels out of place and you can’t help but twirl it round and round, finding the jewel on top with your thumb repeatedly. Bucky and Steve are stacking mugs into the dishwasher as you take a minute to yourself. There are so many things to consider, so many technical aspects of a marriage, planning and pondering, where to have it, what to serve, who to invite, what you’ll wear and what they’ll wear, and how it will work with three.

Your mind wanders to only one thought, and it chews relentlessly deep in your gut.

A hand settles softly on your shoulder and you look up at Steve’s kind eyes. “Baby,” he calls, “We’re with you.”

“Yeah.” You say with a deep breath, placing your hands over his. “Yeah, I know.”

“Whenever you’re ready, we’ll come too.”

Bucky peeks over his shoulder, patting his hands on the back of his trousers and offering you a sympathetic lift of his mouth. You reply with a cagey smile of your own and then shake your head, letting loose your hair before leaning back onto the cushions.

“Let’s go on my birthday,” You summon the courage to plan the first step, “It’ll take the edge off hearing the news.” And you don’t mean about the engagement. You are talking about the relationship—the Binding-- altogether.

The two men nod, letting you steer. It’s been nearly a year since they’ve been with you, since they met you and became Bound to you. Now, there is a new chapter with a home decorated and filled with love, and an approaching celebration to mark the blessed union. It’s been nearly a year now, and Steve and Bucky have not yet met your parents.

Steve leans down to kiss you, hand cupping your jaw, mouth pressed firmly on yours in a promise:

_We’re with you. Whenever you’re ready. We’ll come too._


End file.
